


Mage/Templar? in this good chantry household?

by knifewingo



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-10-05 18:52:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17330504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knifewingo/pseuds/knifewingo
Summary: the venar/Lucien collection





	1. Chapter 1

‘Foul mood’ the healer had told Venar, with such vitriol he could almost taste bile. Lucien wasn’t a stranger to foul moods, of course, and he knew that better even than most. An exaggeration then, perhaps, on the account of someone with sensibilities more delicate than his. He thanked her with a short nod, his face, as ever, long, drawn, impassive. He pressed open the wide wooden door with the palm of his hand, heavy woollen robes whispering his entrance over the footfall-polished slate floor.

Then again, Venar couldn’t remember the last time Lucien had been this badly hurt.

He sat on the farthest pallet, ramrod straight back to the door. Even from here Venar could see, his half-removed armour was covered in blood – not that this was unusual. There wasn’t a Templar among them who so enjoyed the hot burst of apostate blood. Lucien and his greatsword in an enclave of rogue mages – alone, no doubt, how he best liked it – he danced a sanguine tarantella even the boldest berserker would quake at. As he approached, he could almost feel the iron tension in those rough stalwart arms, feel it locked into his chiseled jaw. Each heavy breath he took rumbled, thunderous in his trembling lungs; accompanied with a high, faint whistle, as he blew hot air through his smashed nose.

The softest pad of Venar’s calfskin shoes on the cold floor, and he froze, knuckles whiting as he strangled his breeches.

“What do you want.”

He didn’t turn, but Venar knew the soft gruffness in his voice, even through his fierce gritted teeth, intimately. He was an easy man to anger, and talked always with curtness and contempt – no matter how viciously he denied it, however, Venar had long since noticed the difference in the way he spoke to him. Familiarity, perhaps, had kneaded the bitter edge of pride from his mettle, had softened his harsh voice from a serrated snarl to the deep growl of a dozing lion.

“I heard you were hurt, Ser,” Venar answered flatly. When playing with Lucien’s infernal temper, he’d quickly learned the safest path was impassivity. Sometimes he envied the Tranquil, in their unending constancy. Not often, though.

Now, Lucien glanced over his shoulder; just the sharpest corner of his azure glare. His eye was dark, coloured with bloodshot and sunken in violent, throbbing crimson - but still he watched the mage like a hawk. This hawk’s proud beak, however, was beaten crooked – and his mahogany beard was stained and tangled with his own blood. Venar’s pale eyebrows flexed, and in his mind’s eye he saw, for a moment, the marble statue of this man he so revered smashed to pieces, bone thin porcelain beneath another’s warhammer. He tried to hide the shudder that had swept him suddenly – and perhaps, in the haze of his wounds, Lucien missed it. A first time for anything.

“And?” he hissed. His eyes narrowed – Venar held them for long enough that the gauntlet Lucien had foisted at him dissipated. There was only one way to win this game – the Templar was too smart, knew him too well – any words would have been an affront. Venar breathed steady. Dust listed lazily in the lofty rafters, no wan sunlight to illuminate it in this curved room, only the flickering glow of smokeless torches. He had waited long enough that the infirmary was empty, the shallow beds stripped of their sheets, save for the only one occupied. He would never have stayed here for long – Venar couldn’t help but wonder; had he waited for him? Lucien made a noise of, appreciation, as much as he ever could, raised a wrapped hand to beckon him over.

“Come.”

Only after a few steps did the reek of bitter rust and salt sweat to reach him, sharp and sour, the smell of the sick; yet still was that scent – that Venar had known to follow him for days, to cling to his bedsheets and vibrantly as the chianti stains Lucien’s teeth had patterned on him - those subtle notes of bergamot, almond oil – the sandalwood and lush cypress he combed through his wickedly soft beard. He kicked out a short stool from beside the bed, pointed to it with his foot. Venar sat, obediently – as he passed his fingertips had traced the plane of Lucien’s back, over his sweat soaked tunic – the faintest whisper of tension had left him. Still, he turned his face away – not fast enough that Venar didn’t catch the blackening gleam of his swollen shut right eye, the smeared crimson over his skin. His breath was ragged, heaved his sculpted shoulders like each gasp weighed a tonne.

He couldn’t pinpoint for certain, the feeling that came over him, that spurred him to lean forward and take Lucien’s chin. The Templar’s eyes widened as he did, flashed with uncertainty. But, unwavering, he turned his head until they faced each other. Venar’s breath caught in his throat as he did – carved into Lucien’s ebony brow, and flooding his aquiline features with ruby, a jagged crescent of the deepest, darkest red he’d ever seen. His eye was completely sealed, his whole right side swollen and distorted. He could feel the heat on his fingertips, as he held him there. A strip of white set his nose, and the shadow in the corners of his eyes blazed aching indigo. The gash found the crest of his cheek also, so fiercely that Venar was sure he could see a flash of bone. His hair had sunken out of its tight braids – the ends, sweat slick, stuck to his skin – those that remained crowned his head unevenly, a jaunty wreath of dark copper.

He raised his other hand, delicately, as to rest his fingertips on the burning wound; but in a flash Lucien had caught him. Rough fingers shackled his slender wrist, so tightly they bit like coarse rope.

“Use your witchery on me,” Lucien snarled, “and I’ll break bones you don’t know you have.”

Venar gritted his teeth, swallowed the flutter of anxiety in his throat. For the first time in the years he’d known him, he saw – beneath the steel shell of his wrath, his cunning, his devotion, this gleaming armour – something small, and trembling, and translucent – hot and blind, like a newborn pup. Fragile. Iron chains tensed so tightly to restrain their burden that they might shatter any second. The curl in his lip, the flash of teeth, they were as raw and honest as they were bloated with bravado. 

The thin line of Venar’s lips softened a little – from his beard, his nails traced an electric current across Lucien’s hot skin, finally settling on his unbroken brow, smoothing the cheekbone with his thumb. His grip slackened, finally allowing the young mage to cradle his face. Lucien’s eyes blazed on him, but his tender touch muzzled his rage.

“Let me soothe you,” Venar murmured. Lucien’s breath quickened, the muscles in his neck knotting tight.

“No.”

“Very well,” he breathed, carefully getting to his feet – Lucien looked up as he stood over him. Slender, scholarly, Venar had maybe half his bulk. The touch of reverence in the Templar’s eye was as refreshing as cool water on a parched midsummer’s eve – its chill trickled over Venar’s spine like a lover’s touch. Before he could evaluate the wisdom of it, he had leaned forward, and touched his cool lips to Lucien’s slashed brow. He met with the faintest sigh of release – Lucien pressed lightly into the kiss, his hand slipping to Venar’s shoulder. How desperately he wanted to bury his hands in Lucien’s disheveled mane, to taste his heady breath. As he broke away he touched his fingers to his own lips – wiped away Lucien’s blood, glistening on his pale skin. Lucien watched him with dark, gleaming eyes, as soft as Venar’s voice. “I’ll leave you Ser, if I’m to be of no use.”

Lucien held him firmly as he turned, hand bound to his shoulder like rope, tilting back his head to better see Venar’s face. He fought to remain steady, to keep his expression blank, but already his pulse echoed in his ears. Maker, he prayed he hadn’t flushed as hot as he felt.

“Undress me.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

How many hours had Venar stared at these same ancient rafters?

Even when his eyes burned, when darkness came for him like daggers, sleep could not tempt him. Always, lurking in the periphery of his consciousness, the vast, heaving, crystalline shape that haunted him. Sometimes the sweet haze of the fade would call to him, would soothe his aching mind - but his eyes would snap open, and again he would find himself, stuck to thin sheets and blanketed with sweat.

How he wished for release, just one night of peace. Anything to quiet the constant worry that scurried over his spine with needle claws, gnawed at him with hundreds of blunt, tiny teeth.

The door made no sound - the stripe of warm amber fell on him alone. He glanced over, dark eyes wide, as the dormitory plunged once again into blackness. Silence, save for the soft snoring of his peers.

The intruder’s footfall, careful, planned, made only the barest whisper. Each step cunning as the next – he knew when to be gentle, perhaps even more so than the less pugnacious of his comrades.

Lucien had never come to Venar here. Those snatched moments they’d shared - empty chambers, forgotten dusty alcoves, alone in the spiralling library, cloaked in the musk of vellum and ink, old, cracked leather - they’d collided together, found each other in heated seconds. Lucien had summoned him, or grabbed him by the collar. But always in secret, never in sight.

The pallet dipped as he sat - winter warmth glowed from him, as his coarse palm planed Venar’s smooth, soft back. Lucien’s hand found its way beneath his tunic so naturally that even with his eyes tight shut and breath haltered, Venar hadn’t shuddered at all.

“You’re awake,” he purred - not a whisper, not soft; his voice was low, murmuring on the periphery of his hearing. It wasn’t a question. Venar turned carefully, searched for the glint of Lucien’s sly eyes in the blackness. He could feel his breath, hot and sweet - the muted bitterness of honeyed wine. Venar had never seen him drink – he’d made a point of it - and he lacked the unwary clumsiness of intoxication. It had loosened him, just a little - the gentlest turn on the tight bolts with which he locked himself together. 

Lucien grunted softly as he slipped beneath the sheets, pressed their bodies together. His hand slid smoothly over the Venar’s side, his stomach, to the waist of his briefs. He bit his lip, muted a whimper - Lucien was smiling as he pressed his lips to his neck, he felt it, curled against his skin. His stubble grazed, finely wrought copper wire, sleek autumn fire. Venar’s hand shot to his mouth as Lucien’s teeth worried red stains into him, his warm tongue flickering over his bared skin. Square fingertips traced the valley of Venar’s thigh as he moved against him, hitched up his tunic – Lucien’s sculpted stomach burned on his naked back, nearly stinging in the bitter air.

“Lucien-” he whispered; the Templar’s other hand curled around his wrist, cuffed him, firmly guided his hand back, between his legs. Swallowing his tremor of uncertainty, Venar’s breath shuddered as he palmed the shadow of Lucien’s hard cock. Lucien hummed contentedly, deeply, in the back of his thoat, scraped his dry lips over Venar’s freckled shoulders.

“Don’t make a sound.” He breathed - it wasn’t quite an order or a threat- too soft, for once. Lips so close to his ear, his voice prickled Venar’s neck like the tip of a silver knife. Obediently he softened, locked his tongue and furrowed his brow, relaxed his thighs as Lucien moved to kneel between them. A rugged hand smoothed over Venar’s ass, followed the silken line between his cheeks; lip pinched between his teeth as Lucien pressed the tip of his thumb in. The sound he made, a slumbering lion’s hungry purr – Venar barely heard it, instead felt it course through him, liquid lyrium down his slender spine. His hips flexed against his touch – the second notch of Lucien’s thumb slipped inside him effortlessly. His lips tightened at his nape, grinning as he kneaded Venar into a rhythm.

“Always so good for me.” Lucien’s heady murmur was electrifying – Venar stretched out for him like a lithe cat. Lucien muted a grunt as he bucked into Venar’s grip – velvet, throbbing, his hot tip already slick. His teeth found purchase on Venar’s back, branding him with his desire as he angled above him. His other hand slid from the soft inside of Venar’s thigh to oil his cock. It was stupid, he knew, irrational and immature, but as Lucien’s hand caressed his own he felt a dart of warmth shoot though him, rise to his cheeks and the tips of his ears. Sometimes, Lucien held him so gently, he would forget for a moment the iron will of his want, the coarseness of his rough hands, the bluntness of his commands.

‘ _Please_ ’. He mouthed the word into his pillow but made no sound. Lucien’s hand closed around his and caged together they found a knot of bedclothes. His thumb left Venar empty for a second – he rubbed his tip against him, tortured him with his heat. His breath hitched as Lucien pressed in. Slowly, so Venar felt every pulsing vein. Venar bit his lip, cursed himself not to whimper as Lucien fucked deeper and deeper – he tightened around him, how he liked it, gritted his teeth through the discomfort until finally Lucien slipped into him far enough that he found that sweet spot of warmth. Instantly Venar melted, opened his hips for him, used to the rapid efficiency Lucien reaped in every aspect of his life. Sweat laced his close cropped hair as he steeled himself; he was never loud, had a hard time finding his voice even when the Templar ordered him to. Here, though, the faintest noise would unleash hell upon them both – and more than Lucien’s fury, more than the wrath of their superiors, Venar feared that if they were caught – when, when, for it was bound to happen – Lucien would never come to him again.

But no: no fury, no railing, no pinning him down and fucking him raw. Instead Lucien held him tightly, arm around his waist, lowered them both to the mattress. His body was huge, everywhere, honed muscles tensed as he held himself above Venar – not crushing but firm, like the weight of winter furs. The cold fear in Venar’s core began to melt into liquid warmth – Lucien painted his sensitive neck with kisses, murmured hotly into him. Their hands tangled – loosened, his braid brushed over Venar’s back. His mind whirled, anxiety fraying his neatly woven edges as he tried to process, well, anything really. He wasn’t, had never been, equipped to deal with the tenderness Lucien had for him now. Just thinking about it, even focusing on the strangely narcotic feeling of his fucking against the blunt drive and many bruises their encounters usually left him was enough to snatch his breath away. Those proud hip bones felt so good as they moved against Venar’s soft ass. Lucien’s breath burned as he grazed from Venar’s shoulder to the hook of his jaw. Somehow he was breathless – Venar had seen him train for hours and not break a sweat – and yet here he was, shivering with exhaustion, wound so tightly and desperate for release.

“Turn,” he said. “I want to see your face.”

He pulled out so quickly Venar gasped at his absence. Lucien held his chin as he turned him, rough fingers pawing Venar’s slender throat. The other hand hooked his thighs around his waist – pressed Venar’s knees up against his abdomen as he slipped into him again, without wasting a second. In the dark he could only make out the faintest shadows of his lover’s aquiline features. Lucien’s arms locked either side of his head – he fucked deeper this time, but not harder. Venar’s eyes softened with each draw, his back flexing – now he had to bite his thumb to stifle a moan. Immediately Lucien took his hand again, drew it away from his mouth. Venar could feel those eyes burning into him, intense and unshaken. He couldn’t quite tell what came over him – but slowly, his hand slid along Lucien’s arm, over his tense shoulder and combed through the wild briar of his beard. To his surprise, Lucien leaned into his touch, rubbing against him like a hungry cat. Venar’s eyes widened, just a little, at the soft whimper that slipped from his lover.

“Sweet-” Venar whispered – his tongue found the sounds alone. Lucien swept forward to swallow them with the gentlest grunt. Of course they’d kissed before, but now Lucien’s lips found his messily, impassioned, not greedy or demanding, not even faintly. His teeth pried Venar’s soft, dry lip, Lucien’s tongue coaxing out his own. Venar whined into him, burying his hands in Lucien’s thick hair. Lucien fucked a little harder now, quiet catches in his breath as he crept towards climax. Venar lifted his hips, let him take what he needed, even as his heart raced and the bed beneath them rocked. Lucien’s breath shuddered as his strokes steadied, as their bodies sealed together. His throat tightened, and Venar’s jaw was prized open beneath his as he came, finally, keenly spilling his seed.

Breathless, they parted – their skin clung together, slick, reddened, Lucien’s bristled chest having rubbed him raw. He hovered over him for a moment, eased his cock into the chill air. Venar squirmed a little, clenching, trying desperately to hide his arousal, to not make more of a mess than they already had. Sitting back on his heels, Lucien slid his hand between Venar’s tight thighs. When he spoke, Venar could hear the curious smirk in his voice.

“You think me sweet, novice?”

Venar squeezed shut his eyes, damning his weakness; Lucien hummed softly, amused – not quite playful, but at least a little mischievous.

Those thick fingertips parted him so easily – Venar’s hand shot to Lucien’s bicep, smoothed nails biting into his skin. Lucien hushed him, following his slick shape, finding so quickly that knot of nerves. Venar’s hips bucked and he choked on a gasp. Burned into the back of his eyelids he saw perfectly Lucien’s smug contempt. He wanted to ask him to stop, so he wouldn’t have to think about it, so easily lost in the labyrinth of his anxiety. But Lucien’s fingers so easily found their way inside him, already slicked with his own want, finding Venar’s pulse within his silken walls. Lucien even moaned softly, electrified with want as he leaned down, circled Venar with his tongue. Venar shuddered as he sank into him, Lucien’s fingers curling deeper within him. His breath hissed through his teeth and he felt his hips tighten, ratchet him closer and closer to – he didn’t quite know what. Lucien’s tongue was coarse as his palms but soft somehow, and deeply warm. He sucked firmly, scraped his teeth over the swelling. The feeling swirling in Venar’s core seemed to surge after him like toothed darkness – and yet, like smoke, when he reached towards it, it’d slip between his fingers, so clearly in danger of dissipating into nothing. He wasn’t sure whether to chase it or let it fade; fortunately, Lucien seemed to have made the decision for him. His tongue flickered against him, circling tighter and harder, wickedly hooking his fingers against a pinpoint of sharp pleasure that nearly made Venar yelp. He bucked against him, desperate for more – and for once Lucien was happy to oblige, harder and deeper until finally Venar’s toes curled, his jaw locked, and the tightness in his core unwound into broken shudders. He curled into himself, away from Lucien’s touch, bundled onto his side and turned his face back into his pillow.

Lucien drew his hand over his gleaming beard, stared at his palm in the dull glow. Venar blushed hard, his body still quivering with aftershocks. Lucien made this look so easy – it almost hurt to picture himself, such a flustered mess. Watching Venar, he sat for a moment, something glinting in his calculating eyes. There was something in the still air between them. Something unspoken, that neither man was prepared to give voice to. After what felt like the longest time, he stood, silently. Venar glanced over his shoulder just for a second, watched his silhouette take deep, pensive breaths. Then, finally, he disappeared into the black.

A gentle creak of old wood, another stripe of light, and then nothing.

The chill that found Venar again still had its talons; this time, however, they didn’t seem quite so sharp.


	3. Chapter 3

“Ser?”

He was slumped in the corner of the room, back to cold grey stone. It was rare, to say the least, to see him out of his armour - bare to his breeches and cloaked in a too loose shirt, it took Venar a moment to recognise him. He was not a small man, and even scrunched into himself like a failed letter his silhouette formed a formidable heap. In the dim glow Venar could see, his hair worked loose from those taut braids, gleaming raven draped over his sculpted shoulders. Venar paused, with his palms flat to the door, a startled little hare only now noticing the sleeping lion’s paw. Lucien did not drink, not once in all the time he had been here, and yet, that pickled aroma seeped from him now, heady, more cooling than the night. His breath rattled heavily, the scraping of great granite blocks to the base of a temple. In the moment Venar decided to go over to him, to shake him conscious he lolled back like a log on the tide, and stared at Venar down the length of his crooked nose.

“What do you want?” He slurred - not quite indecipherably. Still as sharp as his hawk features, still curt and cut and, as ever, impatient. The liquor had not dulled his edge. Venar froze, looked for an answer in the darkness before settling into a frown.

“… This _is_ my room,” he said, flatly. Lucien kind of narrowed his eyes for a moment, looking for a reason to scold him, but promptly forgot. Bemused, he rubbed his dry eyes, dragged his bare heels over the slate floor. He was shivering, very faintly. His eyes seemed to grasp for threads in the dark, but each time his lips found a way to voice them they would fade. He groaned softly, scraped his fingers through his hair again, unwound another curl from it. Perhaps it was a blessing that, in his haze he seemed to have lost the knack for broiling frustration he had perfected. But Lucien without that fire - well, was barely Lucien at all. 

Venar had never seen a creature look so lost. 

Tentatively, he went to crouch beside his Knight Commander - even moreso did he move a slick lock from Lucien’s burning forehead. He barely seemed to notice. His olive skin had reddened and glistened in the faint candlelight - even those deep carved frown lines had softened to mere shadows. 

“Do you need something, Ser?” Venar asked, softly. Then, when he didn’t respond - even though it felt _vulgar -_ though he had to swallow the acid in the back of his throat and bid his tongue to move: “Lucien?”

Now something sparked in his eyes - though now they shone with a bitter melancholy, as he looked up at Venar for a moment. Venar, of course, couldn’t hold his gaze, looked away as soon as he could, biting his tongue. Lucien freed a dragon’s breath that deflated his spine, and buried his proud face in his rough hands.

“I don’t know what I’m doing.” He mumbled. Venar touched his fingertips to Lucien’s sunken shoulder. His fingers drilled his temples with such pressure Venar was surprised his skull hadn’t yet cracked. The urge to recoil was almost unbeatable but Venar remained, incredibly still, as if any movement would blast Lucien’s fragile temper at the nearest wall like cannonshot. When Lucien looked up firelight ocean-gleamed in his red raw eyes. “They hate me, Venar,” he muttered, under his breath. The shivering tension in his body coiled like a spring trap, and Venar’s fingertips, the rabbit’s whiskers finding it at last in the cold grass. “They would have my head. They hate me. They have lost all fear of me. I-” His voice strangled him, and he made a noise like a stake had been driven into his chest. His hands clawed in his hair as his lungs shattered with ragged sobbing. 

All of a sudden, everything that Lucien had built himself to be in Venar’s mind, the weathered lion, the dark cliff against which weakness and depravity would crash, this blade of discipline Venar could finally chain himself to - shattered like porcelain. This hollow, fragile man, Venar barely recognised. Through the cracks he could see, finally, those same demons that so haunted him feasting on Lucien’s shackled essence. 

“I don’t want to die in this place.” 

He whispered the words, drummed them against the roof of his mouth until his tongue knotted around them, until he forgot how to speak. As Venar watched him, he realised, that the cold feeling that had wrapped itself around his stomach was not entirely unfamiliar. The last time he had no choice, but Lucien - _Lucien_ \- had the strength of three men and the will of ten. All of these months and Venar had not seen so much as a chip in that façade. Carefully he laid his hands on Lucien’s cheeks, tilted his head upwards; “Look at me,” he breathed. Lucien obeyed, somewhat reluctantly, dragging his leaden gaze up to Venar’s narrowed eyes like a scolded puppy. Heavy, like clay in his hands. Venar couldn't help but wonder, just for a moment, how easy it would be to shape him. 

But Lucien was beyond that - he _had_ to be - and Venar would cling to that with the very last ounce of his strength. For if this could break _Lucien_ , what hope was there for him? 

His heart hammered in his throat as he wrestled back the swell of his own fear. His eyes sharpened - if any single moment of his sorry life had meaning so far this was going to be it - and he was going to carve his name into it even if it killed him. Lucien, weak in his hands with his back to the chasm - and only Venar left with the strength to pull him back. 

“I will die, before I let a wisp of harm befall you,” he said. His jaw was tight, his breath steady - his ice eyes sharp. “Any creature that raises a blade to you I will cut down. I will let no force in this world or beyond keep you from your path.”

Lucien watched him in still silence for a moment, then shook his head. “I am not what you think-.”

“You are,” Venar snapped. Lucien bit back his tongue - shrank away from the sudden ferocity. Venar didn't give himself the time to overthink it. “You _have_ to be. You understand, don’t you? This means more than just you.” 

The night cooled between them, as Venar’s brittle voice rang. Lucien’s hot breath crowded him -they could have been rammed together in a tavern or watching each other from opposite banks of a river and still, Venar’s mind would not have found a single of the things it so desperately searched for now. His confidence had evaporated as rapidly and boldly as it had appeared and he was left, reeling, trying in vain to ink the words he’d just spoken onto any parchment in his blanked brain. Perhaps this numbness was for the best - if only it would mute the inevitable bluntness of Lucien’s rage. Whatever, he supposed his nose could stand to be broken a few more times.

He squeezed shut his eyes when Lucien’s coarse palms found his smooth chin - but to his surprise they weren’t harsh, no biting grip to control him. Instead, they held him softly as Lucien moved beneath him - leaned forward until the tips of their noses touched, and, tentatively, pressed his cracked lips to his. The strength left Venar’s knees and he sank deeper into Lucien’s touch, the Templar’s fingers now carving patterns into his sleek, shorn hair. Firm, demanding, not without a note of desperation. Venar couldn’t have broken away even if he wanted to - and he didn’t. Lucien’s skin may have burned like acid, his beard grazed and his breath steamed liquor sweet but it was, perhaps, the first lick of honesty he might ever have let Venar feel. If only for this moment - Lucien was _his -_ and he was going to hold onto it for as long as he could.

“Never leave my side,” Lucien growled, breathless.

Venar had never broken a command before - and he wasn’t about to start now.


End file.
